Posts: 6

1. Palin A Great Cheerleader . . . But No Leader

   02.Oct.08, 23:45 EDT
   
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   I broke down and watched the debate tonight between Biden and Palin, and it turned out pretty much like I figured it would. She's cute and perky, plain folksy, not the sharpest knife in the drawer, and surely not well informed. But she proved that she's easily trained, knows how to do the old right wing two-step (spout platitudes and slogans when you don't know what the fuck is going on) . . . and she's personable. She did herself well tonight by not looking like a complete dumbass, even though she said little of substance. Biden, like always, was slick and well-informed . . . and on top of his game. He won the debate, lost the popularity contest. Are voters smart enough to see through Palin's easy going, down home surface to see what's really there? Maybe, but you know me . . . I don't have much confidence in the average voter out there. They're too easily swayed by emotional stuff, since that's mostly what they have to work with. Like Palin, they don't understand the system either, and many of them will identify with her. But will she change much in the long run? Can she rescue McCain? Nope. D. Paz, 10/02/08

2. Baby Blue Panties, Part II

   15.Aug.08, 09:24 EDT
   
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   I've got two words for you - distraction and preoccupation.  The first, distraction, is a writer's nightmare, and the second, preoccupation, is a dream come true.  When the mood to write comes over you, it's not just good to be preoccupied; it's almost essential.  Distraction is when . . . well, it's when you get pulled away from this preoccupied writing mood.  Dedicated writers know how to handle distractions, how to keep their muse going.  Myself, I like solitude.  Shut me in a dark room in a quiet house, and I'm a writing machine.
   
   Unless . . . something more important gets in the way. 
   
   All good distractions have that about them, the importance factor - that thing you just can't put off (or don't want to put off).  A television going in another room can be a major distraction, but that's what clickers are for.  Punch a button, and it's shut off.  A phone call doesn't disrupt anything with me, since I seldom answer the ring.  That's what recording machines are for.  I can call back later.  There's all sorts of distractions, and almost all of them can be dealth with . . . all but the wife.  The wife has a way of making sure I don't dismiss her as easily as I would a television or telephone.  The wife is smart.  She knows exactly what it takes to distract me.
   
   My most read blog here on moli was called Baby Blue Panties.  It's about the laundry room wars around here, how I get myself in trouble doing the wash.  The wife has a habit of taking her jeans and panties off at the same time, leaving the white undies down in the jeans.  And I've been known to throw jeans in the wash, with panties inside, and that's where all the baby blue panties come from.  And my wife hates blue, but she wears them anyway.  I don't mind.  She looks good in baby blue.
   
   "Do you have to do that?" I ask, peeking over my monitor.
   
   "Do what?" she asks, innocently.  She knows damn well what she did, I figure.  She just walked through the room wearing nothing but baby blue panties.
   
   "I'm working, so don't be walking through here naked."
   
   "Don't look, if it bothers you."
   
   Two pages later, I'm still on a roll, just about to finish a chapter.  Here she comes again.  This time, I ignore her.  She's had lots of time to get dressed by now.  She's just being ornery.
   
   Chapter finished, but I'm going strong.  Still got the muse working, and I need to get started on the new chapter.  The bad guys are about to get their comeuppance, and I've got good ideas running through my head.  Everything's just right . . . and then . . . here she comes again.  Shit!  I had the word right on the tip of my fingers.  You know, a good word - the kind that just doesn't pop into your head all the time.  And now, it's gone, pushed aside by another thought.  I'm getting irritated at the loss of focus, but I manage to forge ahead. 
   
   Two more pages go by, more good words.  I'm back in the groove . . . and then . . .
   here she comes again.  More distraction.  Preoccupation is taking a real ass kicking now, and I'm even more irritated at my lack of will power.  But I'm a tough guy when it comes to staying with the program, so I go back to work confident that I can win this little tug of war. 
   
   I'm getting it all together again, when suddenly the writing mood breaker comes into play - the thing no red blooded man can ignore.  Out of the corner of my eye something floats past me, sort of like a mini parachute floating down as it settles to the desk beside me.  Baby blue panties.
   
   To hell with it.  I can write later.
   
   D. Paz, 8/14/08
   
   

3. Baggy Boobs? Blame It On Big G

   12.Jul.08, 10:35 EDT
   
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   Yeah, that's a tacky blog title, but I've learned some tricks about getting people to look at what you write.  Lower yourself to tacky titles, like mentioning boobs, and you'll get more interest.  So, for all you shallow readers looking for some juicy tale about big tits, forget it.  The real issue here is gravity. 
   
   But yes, every woman has at some point stared at her naked body in a mirror and noticed that her boobs are starting to sag.  You can blame that on Big G, gravity.  You did nothing wrong except get older, and Big G takes advantage of the older people more than it does yongsters.  As a kid or even a young adult, you can fight off the sagging influences of gravity.  Remember, gravity has but one role, and that's to hold you down.
   
   I'm just a crusty old man and don't have to worry about baggy boobs, but gravity is starting to become my worst enemy.  We all have problems in accepting gravity, that force that holds us down and keeps us from just floating off into space.  I looked it up in Webster's, and it says: the gravitational attraction of the earth's mass for bodies at or near the surface.  Then I looked up gravitate.  To move toward something; to become attracted, Webster's said.  Yeah, that's the gravity I know, that force that pulls things down, attracts them.  Damn near everything I touch some days hits the floor, and it's not because I turn it loose on purpose.  Big G does it, pulls it right out of my hand and sends it crashing to the floor. 
   
   I'm 67 years old now and have been around for a while, and that means I've been dealing with gravity all that time.  I won't bore you with all the run-ins I've have with Big G, but we all have, huh?  Just think about walking, something we all take for granted . . . until we get old.  I can still walk, but it's not as easy as it used to be.  Heck, I can still run, but only for about fifty feet.  We can't remember how hard it was to learn to walk, how often we fell down learning and even after we learned.  Fall down when you ten years old, and that's no big deal unless you fall from a tree.  Did that, been there, and remember it very well to this day.  Fall down when you sixty, and it's a different deal altogether.  At ten, or twenty, or even thirty, you just pop back up and go on . . . but at sixty, you're likely to be down for a while.  And you damn sure don't climb trees anymore.
   
   I don't worry much about falling because I'm more careful now than I was just ten years ago.  Actually, I'm probably more graceful now than at any time in my life - slow as a slug, but graceful.  People around me seem to take that in stride, realizing I'm getting older and need to slow down some.  They even crack wise about it, saying things like, "Hey, old timer, you'd better move a little faster or pigeons are gonna start crapping on you." I just smile, dust the pigeon shit off my shoulder, and go on. 
   
   But Big G has been a real turd about it.  To be straight up honest with you, I'm pissed off at Big G, and I'm likely to stay that way for a while because he doesn't play fair with old people.  Remember that gravitational pull I spoke of earlier?  That's what kills us all in time, that pull, and almost everyone recognizes that.  My proof that people know gravity to be the grim reaper is graveyards - yeah, the old bone orchard.  We bury people as a final recognition that the earth beat us, finally pulled us down.  And so, we tote dearly departed loved ones out to a graveyard and stick them in the ground.  It's almost like we're saying, "OK, Earth, you can have 'em.  You've been pulling 'em down for seventy-five years now, so we're sticking 'em in the ground where they belong."
   
   Well, screw that!  And screw Big G too, the jerk.  I've made it plain to folks around me who'll have the job of getting rid of me when I go tits up that I want to be cremated.  Yep, just lite me up and have a weenie roast, if you want to.  I won't care one little bit by then 'cause I'll be done using this worn out old body.  I don't want a graveyard or funeral, that's for sure.  I like the thought that ashes can float in the air.  Oh, they'd eventually settle back to earth somewhere.  Big G would even pull them down in time, but that would be fine 'cause they'd land on the surface somewhere and might even make good fertilizer.  
   
   I have figured out a way to deal with Big G and my other old age nemeses, and that's to lay a lot of humor on them.  Yeah, I have bad days when they get me down, but you have to bounce back.  I like to think that in the end the spirit that lives within this old body is not constrained by gravity, that what happens to my physical being is unimportant in the final act.  My soul will flee this old carcass and drift off somewhere, and Big G won't be able to do a damn thing about it.  But it would sure be nice if the living could actually see that happen, wouldn't it?  I can just see it now, my family and few friends gathered around to see me off.  All of a sudden, I'd rise up from my dead body, blow kisses to everybody, and then just float straight up into the air and finally disappear. 
   
   . . . and none of our saggy parts will go with us.  That means Heaven must be full of gals with perky boobs.
   
   C. Duhon, 7/12/08

4. A Vehicle Ready For The Junkyard

   07.Jul.08, 12:13 EDT
   
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   There's a philosophy floating free in this country that if it ain't broke, don't fix it.  On the surface that sounds like a good idea, but the problem is that we usually don't know when it is broken badly enough to fix.  Let's use cars as a metaphor here, but the topic is government and what to do about it.  I'll start by saying that I think government in the U.S. is broke down, like an old jalopy that won't run like it should, or maybe at all.  If you buy into the basic principles of democracy (and I do), which is that government is a vehicle, then we need to examine it's condition.  Yep, it's time to hook the old jalopy up to some diagnostics and see what's wrong - what can be fixed and what can't.  What it all boils down to is this:  Is it time to send this broke down jalopy to the junkyard and get ourselves a new vehicle?
   
   Let's look at our metaphorical object first - the car.  We've all gone through it with a car giving out on us, right?  But did it really give out, or did we just give up on it because it started breaking down and giving us some problems.  Maybe the problem was partly with us, and that's usually the case with cars.  Most people don't take good care of them, don't maintain them properly, and end up having problems.  And in most cases, they let little problems turn into big problems, again because they didn't fix what should've been fixed at the right time.  Finally, they get tired of dealing with the problems with the vehicle and trade it in on a new one. 
   
   People who make and repair automobiles have figured us out, know how we are about cars.  Having a car repaired these days is like being cornholed by a gorilla.  Take lots of Vaseline when you go to pay your bill because they're going to ream you out good.  Just a few trips to the pay window at your local car dealership garage and you're ready to bite the bullet and buy a new one that's under warranty.  Again, make sure you've got your Vaseline along.  You're getting ready to take it up the old you-know-what again . . . but at least, you'll probably have something that runs.
   
   Dealing with government is like dealing with folks in the auto business.  We're just as stupid about maintaining this essential vehicle as we are about taking care of our cars.  We don't fix what needs fixing at the right time.  We let little things become big things because we're not smart enough to know when it's broken to where it must be fixed.  And again, when you deal with government that's become expensive because it's broken and not working well at all, take along the Vaseline.  A trip to the county tax office leaves you walking like you've got a corncob up your ass for weeks on end.  Shucking out big bucks for property tax is due mostly to having local governments so antiquated that they have to be hand cranked . . . and guess who provides the hand.  Worse yet, guess who let it get that way - you.  Neglect caused it.
    
   Government in America has become so big and unmanageable that it's almost too costly to maintain, and not just at the county or city level.  We put too many demands on government, want too much in the way of services, and they are hard pressed to meet these demands because they just don't have the skills to do it.  And even if they do have the know-how, they don't have the funds to do it.  Their solution to meeting demands is to raise taxes, increase levies.  We are strapped with governments that only know how to obtain money one way, and that's to take it from you, the taxpayer.
   
   At the federal level, we're incapacitated by interest groups and a privileged class that dominates Congress . . . and the executive branch . . . and even the judicial branch.  Does government work?  Oh, yeah, it works wonderfully well - if your're the fat cat, the privileged, the power broker.  If your average Joe Blow who pays taxes out the ass to keep what little you have, it's not such a good deal.  That means a good 90 percent of the American public is getting screwed, taking it up the ass from a government that has not been his vehicle for a long time.
   
   Some people in the car business are involved in restorations.  They love taking an old car that is almost completely worn out, then restoring it like it was when it came off the assembly line back in 1950, or whenever it was made.  I think that's a wonderful thing to do, but that's not possible with government.  We can't restore government like we can an old car, but lots of people are out there trying to do exactly that.  And maybe they'll learn that it's not possible because the parts are just not available anymore.  Many restoration jobs actually turn out to be custom jobs.  It looks the same, but it just might be a lot better than the original ever was. 
   
   I like custom jobs better because they just make sense.  Why replace worn out parts with antique parts, especially if you plan to drive the vehicle?  What we need in America is a custom government, one that looks something like the old one but has all new, modern, high tech parts.  We need to scrap the old jalopy for the simple reason that it just doesn't work now.  It's a slick machine, for sure, like a big limo or a Rolls or something like that, but it's just not a ride for most of us.  There's no room in it for us average taxpaying, hard-working Americans.  We need something we can all ride in . . . and with room left over for growth.
   
   I'll pay attention to the candidates as they talk about their plans for America . . . but with the belief they're just pissing in the wind when it comes to trying to save the old jalopy they love so much.  I want to hear somebody talk about real change, and not just a restoration.  We need some custom builders to come along, and I probably won't live long enough to see that happen.  But I can dream, and the best dreams of all are the ones that come true for your grandchildren.
   
   This is a rerun from PMC, 2/4/08

5. The Legend of Leonardo Artsifartsi

   03.Jul.08, 16:24 EDT
   
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   I come from a long line of artistic people.  There's a kink in the line from time to time, like when a kinsman completely devoid of artistry pops up, but that's rare.  In fact, I believe that most people have some artsi-fartsi abilities, and those who don't are usually folks who just don't try.  Being creative isn't easy, even for someone with natural ability.  My father, for example, was good with his hands at lots of things - oil painting, music, and drawing, but he spent most of his artistic energy on writing.  He passed some of his abilities along to his kids, but he can't take credit for all of our artistic abilities.  A close examination of family history shows us where it all started - with Leonardo Artsifartsi back in the sixteenth century.  Well, at least that's as far back as any of us have been able to trace family history.
   
   Leonardo Artsifartsi was born in Cremona, Italy in 1586 during the time of wonderful violin making in the town.  His father was a builder of stringed instruments, and Leonardo worked hard at following in his dad's footsteps.  This didn't work out because papa Artsifartsi made cellos and harps, and Leonardo wanted to make guitars, which back then was a relatively new instrument.  There just wasn't a good market for guitars, but Leonardo tried it anyway . . . without success.  He finally ended up going to work in the shop of the famous builder, Antonio Stradivari.  We all know who he is, right?  Leonardo Artsifartsi learned to make fine violins from the great craftsman, but his instruments were never anything like the famous Stadivarius violins.  
   
   He didn't become a famous violin maker because he couldn't pull himself away from guitars, which would not sell, and in desperation he ended up making cabinets and furniture.  He did OK as a maker of tables, but again, he was quirky enough not to build standard ones.  No, not Leonardo - he mostly built urinal tables . . . you know, squatty tables to place pee pots on so as to avoid splatter.  Were he around today, he'd probably point out that his tables paved the way for the invention of the modern toilet (this can in no way be substantiated) . . . or of end tables.  Lots of folks bought his pee pot tables and used them as lamp or end tables.
   
   Artsifartsi didn't want to be remembered as a piss pot table maker, so he got involved in cart making . . . and this is what made him famous.  His niche in history is that he make a cart that became famous because it was the cart Pople Pius used.  I don't know exactly which Pius this pope was, but he was pius to the point he ordered all the all the famous statues at the Vatican purified . . . and this was done by whacking the penis off each nude stature.  Some historians still see this as a travesty - a crime against art that many people have not yet forgiven this Pope Pius for.
   
   Anyway, someone from the Vatican saw one of Leonardo's carts, then commissioned him to make a fancy one for the pope to ride around Rome in.  The cart, of course, was pulled by a mule.  Pope Pius was an impatient man who whipped his mule, and he was often seen speeding through the streets of Rome in his two wheeled cart, flailing at his mule with a whip.  That all came to a screeching halt on day near the Vatican stables.  Pius became impatient with his mule, who didn't want to run that morning, and started whipping him.  The mule bolted, threw Pope Pius out of the cart, causing him to strike his head on a pile of marble penises that had been whacked off the famous statues . . . and he died.  Some grieved his passing, but most did not, and before long all around Rome a toast was being offered.  It went like this:
   
   Here's to Art who built the cart
   That pulled the pope about.
   Here's to the mule who killed the fool,
   A protestant, no doubt.
   
   Leonardo died a famous and beloved man, but broke.  And his financial downfall?  Those damn guitars.  He never would give up on making those stupid guitars.  But he lived for nearly eighty years, which was a long time back then, and ended up making hundreds of fine guitars.  I don't know much about the Artsifartsi family after that, not until another of them emerges in the U.S. some two centuries later - in Pennsylvania.  That would be about 1880 or thereabout.  We think this guy, whose name was Guido Artsifartsi, was a great, great, great, great grandson of old Leonardo, but we don't know for sure.  We think he's directly related for sure because he was a dedicated guitar maker.  He shortened his name to Artsi, since that's what most immigrating Italians did back then, and settled down in a small town in central Pennsylvania where he established Artsi Guitars.  He too learned a hard lesson about trying to make a living selling guitars, and sooner or later he became involved in furniture making.  Actually, Guido did pretty well as a coffin maker, and that's something his arm of the family still does.  Lots of folks up in that part of the country get buried in Artsifartsi coffins, but the official name is just Artsi Coffin Company.  
   
   I understand that there's a guy back east somewhere named Artsi who's making guitars, and I think he's probably some distant kin of mine . . . just another Artsifartsi who can't give up the guitar.  Whenever I run across a relative involved in art, I point out where it comes from, that it's just the old Artsifartsi genes emerging.  As for me, I'm carrying on the tradition down here, still piddling with guitars and not making a dime doing it.  I even tell people that Campo Madrone is an Artsifartsi hideout,  that I'm just carrying on a family tradition.  I'm even thinking about making a cart, just like the one old Leonardo made back in the 1600's.  And I've always wanted to make a coffin, just for giggles and grins.  I might even carve a guitar on the side of it.
   
   Come to think of it, I've got a friend who raises mules.  He might even let me borrow one to pull my cart around . . . and I won't have to worry about what happened to Pope Pius around Campo Madrone.  The only piles you'll find around here are soft, and I'm sure by now you know what that is.
   
   D. Paz, 7/3/08

6. Sex in the Sixties

   27.Jun.08, 11:31 EDT
   
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   1960 - the year I graduated high school and went off to college.  I should've graduated the year before, but I was still trying to set records as the worst high school student ever.  Taking an extra year to finish just gave me a chance to mature more before college - not intellectually, but physically.  Discovering sex in high school was a contributing factor to my poor student status, but it didn't seem to disrupt my girlfriend's schedule.  She just kept on making good grades right through the extra educaton we were getting in the art of lovemaking.  Girls handle things like that better than us guys.
   
   At any rate, I went off to college not completely inexperienced with sex . . . but got there and found out I had some catching up to do.  This was the crazy sixties, a time when adults thought all us kids had gone to hell in a handbasket . . . and maybe we had, for a while.  It took me as long to get through college as it did high school, but I finally graduated mid-term in 1965.  This wasn't a good time to be graduating, with Viet Nam heating up and all, so I went straight into graduate school.  After completing my M.A. in the summer of '66, I started a doctoral program at another universtiy just a month later.  In between, though, I got married.  That's when the sex part really went into high gear - 25 years old, newlywed, living the high life . . . you get the picture, right?
   
   Money got tight and I took a teaching job in the summer of '67, then started my long career as a college professor.  In '69, I became a daddy for the first time, and then again in '70, we had a second child.  Got a boy and a girl, just right - time now to settle down and do the family man thing.  It was time, for sure, but I never did get over the sixties.  I've lived through six and a half decades now, and I'd have to rate the sixties as perhaps my best despite having some serious difficulties.  I was almost killed in an auto accident at the age of 21 in 1962, and I never did fully recover from those injuries.  But I was young and strong and extremely willful, and nothing was going to hold me back in the sixties. 
   
   I laid out of school for one semester after the accident, then went back with renewed vigor . . . intellectually, that is.  My body was a mess, and it took years of exercise (lifting weights) to get it back up to snuff.  It didn't stop me from having an active sex life, however . . . because it was the sixties, right?  New attitudes, new opportunities for young folks eager to get into the mix of things.  Despite my healing broken ribs, etc., I tried to make a hand a being a charmer with the gals.  Once while locked in a passionate embrace with a perky young lady, she pushed me back and said, "Damn, boy, hugging you is like snuggling up to a sack full of door knobs."  Nope, being injured didn't stop the mixing it up, and we sure did a lot of that.  That's a nice way of putting it, you see.  And I must've learned something from my high school girlfriend because I did lots of mixing and still made good grades.  The sixties weren't only years of high sexual energy, they were years of learning.  This is where and when I decided to become a college professor.
   
   The next decade was a bad one for me, however.  Those years were productive in some ways, but I struggled with a bad drinking problem back then.  That would've been the seventies, and then came the eighties and things started turning around for me.  This decade was difficult but productive for me.  I managed to get free of booze, divorced and then remarried, and got involved in writing for the first time.  The nineties weren't bad, but I struggled some with health problems and burned out as a teacher.  I can't say for sure about the first decade of the new century as of yet, but so far, so good.  I'm now in my sixties again . . . not the decade, but the age part.  So what's different about the sixties now and the sixties then?  Well . . . I'm sure not back in the mix again, if you're wondering about that.  I still mix it up a little, but with the same old gal . . . and it's still as much fun as it ever was.
   
   I know you may not to see the humor in this, but I've got to mention it.  I had a heart attact in '05, and a fairly serious one that laid me up for quite a while.  Actually, I had a close call, almost died, and that scared my wife worse than it did me.  I got some new parts put in, then came home and started recovery.  I couldn't do much of anything at first but my strength started slowly coming back.  Sex, though, was the last thing on my mind for some time.  When it came back, it came all at once.  I looked at Evelyn, the wife, one day and got that old familiar feeling all men recognize as being horny.  When I suggested we mix it up (catch up time), she got pale.  "Are you sure you're ready?" she asked.  "Well, I don't know about me, but he is," I said, looking down and smiling.  I smiled because it had been some time since I'd seen private Limpy at attention . . . and looking like he was ready to go to war.
   
   Men are such dumbasses when it comes to sex, and I'm no different from any other man.  My doctor had already told me that I might experience some chest pains with sex, and that if it happened, I was to take my nitro glycerine pills.  So . . . I put the bottle of nitro pills on the nightstand beside the bed and got ready for action.  This is not a good thing to do.  It sure puts your woman out of the mood in a hurry, and for a moment or two there, I thought I really was back in the sixties - that's how disorganized and clumsy it was.  And every thirty seconds she was asking, "Do you feel OK?  Are you in any pain?"  All I could think to say back was, "I'm doing fine.  You can join in at any time now."
   
   Well, that's enough description about that.  I'm already in trouble if she ever reads this, but I'm just pointing it out because other people have gone through the same thing.  Perhaps the time will come when sex becomes unimportant in our relationship, but I don't worry about it.  Sex in the sixties continues for me, and for that, I'm grateful . . . for both decades, the one then and the one now.  Like I've often said, I'm a lucky guy!
   
   D. Paz